


Street Lights and the Quiet of Darkness

by Michelle_A_Emerlind



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Dreams, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Religious Dreams, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 17:51:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3701273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michelle_A_Emerlind/pseuds/Michelle_A_Emerlind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murphy starts dreaming about his brother with the same kind of clarity in which they've dreamed about becoming the Saints. Is this a higher power trying to tell him something? And is Connor dreaming too?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Street Lights and the Quiet of Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know. This isn't Walking Dead. But hey, at least it's Norman. :) Hope you guys enjoy (and I'm totally going to hell for this).

The first time it happened, they were twelve and they had fallen asleep at the same exact moment. Murphy knew this because the slip from walking to dreaming had been nearly instantaneous and Connor had been with him through it all. He knew the difference between Connor’s true presence and his mind’s false creation of his brother and this was true--as true as the blue sky, the concrete of cities, and the green expanses of Ireland.

They had woken in fear and had run to their mother, crawled in her bed and cried, nearly incoherent with the deep seated _fear_ of it, the presence of something bigger than them, something righteous and guiding heavy in their stomachs. She had smacked them both upside the head, but in her loving way, told them they were talking too much to each other and one of them--she blamed Connor, because he was always the one with the stories--was getting into the head of the other one. Getting into the head of, alright, Murphy had thought.

They had let it go the next morning. Let it wash away like words in the sand. But it had come back.

***

When they were sixteen, they stopped referring to it in vague terms such as “those nights” and “the really vivid visions,” and “that fucking time when…” They actually talked about it. They had a long conversation that stretched from that Friday night with their first beers in their hands all the way through the Sunday picnic after church and by the time that Monday rolled around, they had clarified it. This was the Lord’s work. This was what he wanted from them. They started referring to dreams in two ways--the us dreams and the I dreams. Murphy, for his part, had always been partial to the former.

***

The night after the Russians, the dream had taken them by surprise because honestly the us had trailed down to nothing in the last few years. Murphy was actually glad to have it back. He felt an overwhelming sense of direction after it was all over-- _destroy that which is evil, so that which is good may flourish_. Before, his life was listless. It was still and waiting, like the quietness of a desert before a rain. It was a cup waiting to be filled. But after-- _THE SAINTS-_ -now they were something. Now they knew what their purpose was.

That’s when it started.

***

The first thing that Murphy processes in the dream is that he is alone. When he is without Connor this is always the first thing that he notices. He feels wrong, like there is too much air on his right side--a void that feels heavier than any material object.

He is in church. This is the second thing. The pews are empty, but the place is familiar--the wooden seats, the dark red walls. Up front, the candles are burning. The building is warm and homey, but Murphy doesn’t feel safe. He feels like he has to get outside. Because Connor is outside.

He starts walking and with each footstep, he hears whispers, voices growing louder until each heavy thump of his boot signals another word. At first, he thinks it is the voice of his mother, then later, the Monsignor. Briefly, he thinks of grander things, of who else it might be. But regardless, the words remain the same: “Love does no harm to its neighbor. Therefore love is the fulfilment of the law.”

The aisle to the doors is longer than he knows it to be, the floor under his heels louder. When he pushes to go outside, the doors threaten to hold, creak under their own weight as his hands push them outward. On the steps, Connor is there.

When Murphy breaks into the light, the heavy doors shut, but the church is still there. It is with them like it always is, ink more permanent than anything they have ever put on their skin. Murphy takes one stride down the steps and Connor takes one step up. And then they have hold of one another and it is nothing like it’s ever been. It is _want_.

***

Murphy wakes up with a start and sits up in bed, throwing his upper body forward. The room is dark from the heavy blinds blocking the window and across from him in the second double bed, Connor remains rigid and silent. “Connor?” Murphy asks, but gets no response. Murphy hangs his head. “ _Fuck_ ,” he says and rubs at his temple.

He stands up because he’s awake now and goes into the bathroom, throws cold water on his face. His dick is rock hard and his face is Boston red. He hisses out through his teeth and refuses to touch himself. Refuses to take himself into his hand after thinking of his _brother_.

Instead, he pours a glass of water and downs it, even though he stops being thirsty halfway through. He walks back out into the hotel room and crosses by the two beds to the window, pulls back the heavy curtain so the light can get through. Washington, DC. Chinatown. A little hotel above an Irish pub. Murphy sighs. He sits by the window and traces the outline of it. It’s one of those types that’s never meant to open--only meant to sit and look pretty, take the outline of the city and frame it by glass. Murphy hates the city sometimes, the low streetlights like now, the buzz of people still awake at four in the morning.

He sighs and tries not to think about Connor, but that’s impossible really. It’s like asking himself not to think at all. Hell, not to breathe. Connor is more than just his brother. He’s Murphy’s heartbeat, the electricity in his synapses, the ligaments that make up his hands. Murphy _is_ Connor and Connor _is_ Murphy.

So it’s not that much of a stretch to think about things like want. Murphy’s already done everything in front of his brother. Fuck, sometimes they shower together. Is it so strange to think about closing the circle, about making that one last line that they’ve never crossed crossable? Murphy sighs and tilts his head toward Connor’s back, asleep on the bed. Connor hadn’t woken up. So that makes this an I dream. But god does Murphy want it to be an us.

***

Chicago, not too far from downtown. The streets crawl with cars and people like ants, the tall buildings the makings of a modern kind of jungle. Murphy stares through sunglasses at the black windows of skyscrapers, examines the shifting colors of traffic lights--yellow, red, green. This time, they don’t try to hide it. This one’s for show.

They put the mob boss down on his knees in the middle of an intersection, a white sedan honking at them from Murphy’s peripheral vision. Their voices join in unison, melting together like snow making streams in the spring. The trigger is light on Murphy’s finger, the red pools soaking into the concrete, the screams around Murphy somehow softer this time, like the afternoon air has dulled them.

Afterwards, they flee. They drive two hours up to the Milwaukee area, camp in a hotel overlooking the lake. Connor is quiet, but not depressed. They split a pizza and a six-pack and fall asleep easy.

***

It’s the bar this time. Good old McGinty’s. The dream is crystal clear as everyone that they love surrounds them. The bar is a mess of laughter, the banging of cues on pool balls, the clinking of glasses. Vaguely, Murphy recognizes that it’s a holiday, but not a standard one. It’s something more personal, like an anniversary or a wedding.

Connor is sitting on the barstool opposite him and they are facing each other instead of the bar, Murphy’s left knee between Connor’s. Murphy feels himself break out into a grin and he barks out a laugh. “Aye,” he says, in response to a question that Connor has asked. “Do it if you’re gonna.”

The bar whoops in glee and they pick up the chant: “Do it. Do it. Do it.” Murphy curves his lips into a gentler smile and Connor starts to move. Murphy knows before he’s even begun what this is, what it’s going to be. He can tell by the slope of Connor’s neck, by the way his eyes are locked onto Murphy’s, by the ringing in his ears like choir music.

Connor’s hand comes up to rest on his neck, just an inch from his shoulder and his thumb presses into the pulse point, the rest of the fingers massaging in. Connor leans forward and up and his mouth touches Murphy’s at a downward decline, his hand tilting Murphy’s head back. Murphy lets him win this round and tilts his head to the angle that he knows that Connor will want it.

Connor tastes like smoke and the heaviness of ale, his tongue as sharp as lashes. Murphy meets him inch-for-inch, touches the deep recesses of Connor’s mouth that he doesn’t have to explore because he already knows. Even if this is the first time.

Murphy puts his hands on the sides of Connor’s neck, pulls Connor’s body to him. They fall into each other’s mouths like sand from an hourglass, like the bitter taste of _amen_ on the lips of a sinner. Murphy’s hands go lower to Connor’s collarbone and his fingers dance over the rosary beads. The object is a shock, as cold as winter metal. Murphy breaks away.

Connor isn’t smiling at him, but he isn’t frowning, either. He’s staring him down and it’s one of those moments--the precipice of something. Murphy blinks and looks around him at the bar patrons who are waiting on them, watching. Behind the bar, Doc is washing a glass, his hands moving the rag around the outside, his eyes fixed on Murphy. To his left, there are words on the wall. Murphy stares at them, engraved in like they’ve been scratched by a knife, the first time he’s ever seen them: “the acts of the sinful nature are obvious.”

He turns to Connor and the question in his eyes. The bar stills into nothingness, the city as quiet as Ireland pastures. “Aye,” Murphy says.

***

He wakes in a sweat, but this time his body doesn’t jump straight out of bed. He blinks up at the ceiling, taking in the bumpy plaster that glows white with the passing headlights outside. Beside him--there were just King beds left tonight--Connor is turned away, his own back naked and slick with sweat. Murphy wants to touch him, wants to feel Connor’s skin on his, hot and inviting. He squeezes his eyes shut and brings his hand to his mouth, covers it as he lets a breath go. He can still taste Connor, metallic and rough in his mouth. But then he will always be able to. Connor tastes just like himself.

***

“--Spiritus Sancti.” The gunshot lands before the final word does, the syllables cracked in two. _Sanc-ti_. Murphy’s shot lands a second before Connor’s, which follows as it should, ending the prayer like a period to a sentence.

Connor arches his eyebrow up to Murphy. “Eager today, aren’t we?”

Murphy grunts. “Fuck off,” he says and storms away from the garage before Connor can turn his judgemental eyes toward him. Behind him, Murphy hears the clack of Connor’s boots and then his brother is beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder. He stops Murphy with nothing but his own presence.

Murphy sighs and stands still beside their parked car. “You look like Doc talking with all the Russians,” Connor says and grins. “What’s the matter, now? Tell me.”

Murphy shrugs and knows that his quiet behavior is only reinforcing his bad attitude. “Not sleepin’ well,” Murphy says and squints one eye at Connor against the sun.

Connor flinches just slightly at that, but before Murphy can question what it means, he makes a little “hmming” noise and asks, “It getting to you? The work?”

Murphy shakes his head and leans against the car, trying hard not to feel the cool metal at his back and envision Connor’s hands roaming across his skin, making it warm again. “Not that,” he says and shrugs. “Having dreams is all.” He sucks in a breath. “You?” he asks, before he can stop himself.

Connor shakes his head, almost too fast. “No. No dreams. Sleepin’ like a baby.”

Murphy nods and clears his throat, trying to dislodge the heavy stone sitting there that’s threatening to drop down into his stomach with disappointment. “Aye,” he says and opens the car door, slips inside.

***

This time, it’s their old apartment. Connor walks in first like he always does and Murphy follows him, puts his rosary beads on the wall right after Connor. He watches them sway a little with the movement, Murphy’s own hanging lower than Connor’s in the only real thing that ever distinguishes them from one another.

Murphy steps forward in a familiar movement toward the couch, but Connor’s hand pressed against his chest stops him. “No,” Connor whispers, the word lily-sweet. “I want you.”

And then Connor’s lips are on his, curved into just the right shape. “Connor,” Murphy whispers against them and he locks eyes with his brother, watches the pupils blow out and his breath catch. And then Connor is shoving him backward and he hits the wall but he can’t be bothered to care as Connor is pressing against him inch-for-inch, their bodies molded together from hips to chest. Connor kisses him with vigor, diving his tongue in and Murphy moans as it meets his own. He feels his hips catch, fluttering up to Connor’s body, and then Connor’s hand is in his hair and his own are on Connor’s hips.

“Stop,” he whispers against Connor’s mouth even though his body is singing for it. Connor pauses and lifts himself just slightly off of Murphy. Murphy blinks. “I am laid low in the dust,” he says.

Connor watches him and then swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion. “Be gracious to me through your law,” Connor says, finishing the verse.

“What do we do?” Murphy asks.

Connor leans forward, putting his hand right under Murphy’s chin and pulling Murphy toward him. “I don’t know,” he says and then kisses Murphy, his lips warm and chaste, but shivering with the power of a benediction.

***

When Murphy wakes this time, his body doesn’t even jerk. The only indication that the dream has ended is the cold breeze filtering in from the window and the soft sighing of Connor’s breath. Murphy lets his own out slowly, his body deflating against the mattress. “What do you want from me?” he asks quietly, but there’s no response from Connor or from any other source. He closes his eyes and swallows hard, tries to push down the feel of Connor pressed to him like he was meant to be there, like everything in Murphy’s life had lead up to that one particular moment when their bodies met. It’s wrong, he tells himself and lets the words echo through his head. But they dissipate like the lyrics of a song he’s never really known and all he’s left with is a feeling growing in his gut of urgency and direction.

***

Murphy takes to chain smoking. It’s really the only way he can stop tasting his own mouth, stop imagining Connor’s tongue heavy in it. And besides that, it helps him forget that they are on the run. A gang of hitmen has been set against them and they are chased out west--all the way through Wisconsin and then into the Dakotas, Montana, Wyoming, all the way to Salt Lake. When they arrive, they find the hitmen’s friends waiting for them and it’s a showdown, a twenty-three body count, and a quick evasion from the FBI.

They drive into Nevada and find a little next-to-nothing town with one hotel. They request a room on the ground floor and as Murphy’s ill-gotten luck would have it, it’s just a Queen bed. But this is his brother, Murphy thinks. He’s slept on top of him before. And let’s not start thinking of on top of again.

They are exhausted and beaten down, so it doesn’t take much for them to fall asleep, back to back, their shoulders blades touching since both are still skittish of attack and need comfort.

Murphy settles in and dreams.

***

It’s Ireland now. An old cottage they used to have with their mother, only this time Murphy recognizes that she doesn’t live here anymore. It’s theirs. The walls are stone and the furniture is old and worn, the fireplace burning. The house is warm and Murphy vaguely registers that it’s cold outside.

Connor walks in from the other room in nothing but a loosely closed bathrobe and smiles at him, leans over Murphy where he is sitting at the table. Murphy feels the smile on his face instantaneously and knows that it wasn’t his own muscles that put it there, but Connor’s sheer presence. “I love you,” he whispers into Murphy’s hair and then slides his lips down, leaving goosebumps across Murphy’s skin. “Think it’s my turn today.” And then he pulls back the collar of Murphy’s shirt and bites down on the collarbone there, sucking it into a bruise. Murphy groans and tilts his body back into Connor’s.

“The kitchen table, eh?” he says and when Connor hums an affirmative, Murphy stands quickly and grabs Connor’s shoulder, spinning him around to crash down onto the table on his back. Murphy falls between his legs like gravity and kisses him, plastering their bodies together in union. “Love must be sincere,” he quotes.

Connor smiles, his lips sharing the same space as Murphy’s. “Not anything wrong with that now is there?” His eyes twinkle in the light of the fire and then he is reaching down, pulling Murphy out slowly and Murphy realizes vaguely that Connor has already fixed himself up for this and in the space of a breath of a second, Murphy is _in_. He smooths his hand over Connor’s neck and presses their foreheads together, panting in want.

“Not gonna leave me hanging, are you?” Connor asks and then Murphy is moving, his body sliding into Connor’s and becoming more a part of it than it already was. Connor clings to him, digging his nails into Murphy’s back. He puts his mouth back on Murphy’s collarbone and works his teeth and tongue in, leaving a mark that’s deeper than ink and bullet scars.

It feels like seconds, but like days, too, their bodies smoothed together like the quickening of rivers. And then Murphy feels it happening, feels the tight coil of his body, his muscles on edge. He feels Connor below him, arched and ready and then Connor whispers “Murphy” into the warmth of the cottage and meets Murphy’s mouth like there was no other way this could possibly end.

Murphy comes in him. He makes Connor his and Connor’s body accepts him with the ease of grace. Afterwards, they stay on the table for a long while, basking in each other’s skin, their minds like two gears of a clock that are interdependent on one another.

Murphy doesn’t wake up until morning. And when he does, the light from the window is fuzzy, softer. Like a decision has been made, set free in his blood.

***

They make their way straight to Boston, all the way across the country. The hitmen are all gone and the cities have slowed down their ferocious intent towards crime, the gangs and mobs sitting quiet in their homes, biding their time.

Since Boston comes with Smecker and a police force firmly in their pockets, they stay at one of the larger, grander hotels. They request a suite with a true-to-form jacuzzi and spend time roughing each other up over who gets to use it first. A few quick shoves turn into a full out scuffle and they end up on the floor, twisting to see who gets on top. Murphy wins and he stands up, whooping in glee and grinning ear-to-ear in Connor’s direction over his victory.

Connor rolls his eyes from the floor, but with laughter written clear across his face. “Fine, go ahead then,” he says, “take all the fun out of it.”

“Yeah, I will,” Murphy says, a joking sneer on his face. He grabs his shirt by the bottom and whips it off. “Fucking _enjoy_ it, too, you prick. Damn well bet it has healing qualities.”

Connor snorts and takes a quick scan over Murphy’s upper body. “Don’t look like you need it none. That bruise healed up nicely, now didn’t it?”

The room spins and the laughter bubbling across the walls quickly dissipates like air being popped from a balloon. Connor snaps his jaw shut and averts his eyes quickly, sucking in a breath as if he could pull his words back in. Murphy blinks at him, his shirt still dangling in his hand and thinks _surely_ not. Surely…

“Con?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Connor says quickly. “Don’t know what I’m saying.”

“What bruise?” Murphy asks.

Connor shrugs. “Nothing. Thought you had one from those gangsters in Utah. Nothing. It’s nothing.”

“Connor,” Murphy asks again and when Connor starts to protest, “ _Connor_.”

Connor shakes his head and looks away, sighing heavily. Murphy studies him, his downcast glance, the tension in his shoulders, the hitching of his breath. “Connor,” he whispers quietly. “Have you been _dreaming_?” Murphy watches as he screws his eyes up and ever so slightly nods. Murphy lets that nod seep into the corners of his brain for just a second. He lets himself process the truth of that, the _us dream_ truth of that, the divine guidance truth of that. And then he explodes. “You...you...fucking ass motherfucking fuck of a fuck whoring prick. Are you fucking ass _kidding me_? I’ve been...y _ou’ve been watching me wake up all worried and fuck_ and you haven’t said one _fuckin’_ word? You fucker. You absolute sheep shitter. You--”

“I knew you’d make a thing out of it,” Connor cuts in and then he stands slowly.

“A _thing of it_ ,” Murphy bites out. “Yeah. I’d make a _thing of it_. It’s a dream, Con,” Murphy says and walks forward, his hands out and pleading. “It’s a dream. It’s an _us dream_. Don’t tell me you didn’t feel it.” He reaches out to place his hands on Connor, but Connor steps back from him with a flinch.

“It’s not like that, Murphy. It can’t be like that. There’s good and evil in the world, brother. And there’s good and evil that can give dreams. This is just temptation. This is just somethin’ trying to beat down our walls and--”

“It doesn’t feel wrong,” Murphy cuts in. “It doesn’t feel evil.”

“That’s because it doesn’t want you to,” Connor reasons. “It’s _deception_.”

“Tell me what’s deceiving about it,” Murphy says even as a deep shock resonates in his bones that he is defending this. “Tell me you feel in your soul that this is wrong. Tell me you don’t feel something pulling you to me like a moth to a light.”

Connor shakes his head hard. “It’s a dream. I can’t control my actions in a dream. But I can control them now, Murphy. I can control them right now.”

Murphy swallows as he watches the dip of Connor’s head, the refusal to meet his brother’s eyes. “What if we’re not meant to?” he asks softly.

Connor squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. “I won’t.”

“Why can’t we _try_?”

“I’m not gonna try to sin, Murph. I won’t. I won’t indulge it.” He turns away from Murphy, trying to physically stop the conversation, but Murphy’s not done.

“Kiss me,” he says instead, ignoring everything that Connor is saying.

Connor spins back around. “What are you, deaf, you dumb twat?”

“No,” Murphy says and storms forward, grabs Connor’s neck even through the flinching. “This isn’t a dream. There’s nothin’ that can make us feel anything but ourselves. Kiss me. If it’s wrong, we’ll know. The good Father will tell us. And if it’s not we’ll know, too. So kiss me. Show me it’s wrong, Connor. If you believe it is, show me.”

Connor stares at him for a moment, his eyes boring into Murphy’s, centuries of conversations hidden within their depths. Murphy doesn’t blink, just lets Connor absorb his spirit the same as Murphy is absorbing Connor’s and then slowly, ever so slowly, like the moving of glaciers and the length of morning mass, Connor’s eyes slide down to Murphy’s lips. He swallows. “Aye,” he whispers softly.

Murphy nods almost imperceptibly and then he leans forward, arching his body perfectly toward Connor’s in a slow, burning type of way. He has to make this perfect, he tells himself. He has something to prove. And then his nose bumps Connor’s and he just laughs, a breathless little sigh of a chuckle and Connor’s face breaks into a grin that is so _right_ , so terrifyingly _them_ that Connor’s nerves crackle with it.

“You’re fuckin’ this up,” Connor tells him, his eyes sparkling with secrets that angels have left there.

“Well, fuck you in your motherfuckin’ ass,” Murphy tells him.

Connor barks out a laugh, but then bites his lip, a blush creeping slowly up his neck. “Think it’s your turn, eh?”

Murphy grins, then, and closes the distance between them, sliding his eyes shut and pulling his body into Connor’s like the locking of the confessional door. This isn’t for the world. It’s not for anyone outside. It’s only for them, for the two of them. It’s Connor and Murphy melting together and as Connor’s lips fall apart under Murphy, as Murphy’s tongue slips inside and his teeth scrape across Connor’s bottom lip, Murphy feels his body sing with a kind of deep-seated righteousness he’s only felt one other time--when he pulled the trigger on the Russian boss in that posh-ass hotel room. And from the feel of it, Connor is resonating with it, too.

“Murphy,” he says and his nails dig into Murphy’s hip through his jeans. “I--”

“Don’t,” Murphy says against his lips. “Just fuckin’ feel me right now.” And then he kisses him again, pouring all of the weeks of want he has into it and beyond that, the _lifetime_ of a desire to be closer, to always push the boundaries that extra step, to crawl into Connor’s skin and live with him like they were meant to be from second one. There is no older and younger, no taller and shorter, no difference in eye color, hair color, skin. They are only each other and only themselves. Only one person stumbling back toward the bed in the corner, only one falling down, two bodies rolling into one soul until there are no clothes anymore, just naked skin and ink, complementary and molding.

Murphy gasps and then Connor is biting his collarbone for _real_ this time, digging his teeth in and leaving a mark right where it should be and Connor is below him, but it’s still Murphy’s turn. So he grabs the non-scented lotion beside the bed because that will have to do and the seconds his body spends arched away from Connor to prepare himself are the absolute longest seconds of his life.

And then Murphy is holding him and sinking down and Connor is hissing, but digging his nails into Murphy’s hips and then they are kissing again, only this time Connor is within him like he’s always supposed to have been and there is no wrong in this that Murphy can feel, just a smooth impending sense of _belonging_.

Murphy rises and falls to the small twitches of Connor’s hips and Connor’s mouth on his is the purest form of prayer. They writhe together, bodies in interlocking puzzle shapes snapped in and Murphy feels every twitch of Connor’s body, every last movement of his muscles under the skin. His gasps become more rapid, more wanting, and Connor meets him inch-for-inch, whispers Murphy’s name over and over into his mouth and then with one final long and loud gasp, they are coming together, Murphy jerking forward without even so much as being _touched_.

Connor watches him, shivers with the intensity of Murphy ending himself all over Connor’s stomach and Murphy, for his part, just shudders at the feel of Connor deep inside of him, letting loose and _claiming him_. There will never be anyone who touches Murphy like this, not even if he has sex with a million other guys. His body isn’t his anymore and his spirit has been sold. Connor owns every inch of him, physical or otherwise, and there’s no use fighting something that has always been building up to happen.

Murphy collapses next to Connor on the bed, his chest heaving with effort and exhaustion. Connor reaches over and runs his hand over Murphy’s chest, touching him skin-to-skin, his eyes ravishing, but sated as well. “Didn’t feel wrong,” he says slowly.

Murphy grunts. “Told ya, you fucker.” And then he’s laughing. And Connor is laughing, too, gathering him up and apologizing for the weeks of being a piss ass little shit about it all and suddenly Murphy feels at _home_ in this damn expensive hotel in the city he loves, his brother curled next to him, and the world closed off outside.

He forgets about the jacuzzi and he falls asleep in Connor’s arms. And this night, neither of them dream. Their sleep is filled with nothing but the peace of their rising breaths, the feel of their skin pressed next to one another for warmth, their limbs tangled up in one another with the same ferocity as their hearts.


End file.
